My collection. Little stories, poems. Saved in folders on the Windows Vista, sitting patiently, waiting to be read and reread and edited. No one knows about them, though. They are hidden, hidden under shadows of uncertainty, hidden under layers of files like an onion. Each one is unique. Some, sterling silver like happiness, running through sunflowers on a summer's day. But the others. Dark and thunderous, bleeding emotion like delore. Which means sadness, sorrow, grief- in musical terms.

One story, so real you think you are there when you read it. My favorite. Peel away all those layers, and artichoke of archives, till you find the heart. There it is, the story, nestled amongst its brothers and sisters, other stories and poems. When you first set your eyes on the screen, you are there, Hello to this new world. Here, it is raining, and the jazz club, with its classy furnishings and skilled musicians, is open. This story is a sad kind of smile. The kind you get when you talk to someone you love with something fierce, but who doesn't love you back. That kind of sad smile.